


morning tea

by scarsimp



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Miles POV, Some minor sad, and eating breakfast together, but generally just waking up together in the morning, he reflects for a moment, he's a thoughtful person he gotta Think
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-10
Updated: 2020-08-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:26:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25825084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scarsimp/pseuds/scarsimp
Summary: Their relationship had felt akin to drowning, at first. It had started achingly slow, a hesitant hand held out to pull him up, the other teaching him the recipes he had been taught by his own parents— something that hit Miles like a punch to the gut.
Relationships: Miles/Scar (Fullmetal Alchemist)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 14





	morning tea

**Author's Note:**

> Sof... I did one for Jean n roy so I had to do one for more characters

Miles woke up slowly, blinking at the light streaming in from the curtain and fighting off the temptation to roll back over. He yawned cavernously, moving to rub at his eyes before brushing hair from his face. His lover was a steady pressure on top of his chest, heartbeat slow and breathing even. It surprised Miles a bit to wake up before him, the other typically awake and about by seven or so. 

Miles cast him a painfully fond glance, before brushing a thumb over the scar marring his face and shifting to press a kiss on it. _('There is nothing wrong with you, or your_ _face. Scars mean you survived.')_ He wrinkled his nose at the stimulation, pressing his face into Miles' chest. A press of adoration flooded through Miles' chest and he couldn't do anything for a moment but stare, fingers resting on the Ishvalan's back and a smile pulling his lips up.   
  
After an impressive battle of wills he managed to inch his way out of bed, careful not to wake the still sleeping man. Miles fought off a shudder when his feet touched the cold floor _(when did he start picking desert heat over Briggs cold?)_ , rubbing his arms and quickly snatching up a stray shirt to tug on as he made his way downstairs. 

*****

  
  
Their relationship had felt akin to drowning, at first. It had started achingly slow, a hesitant hand held out to pull him up, the other teaching him the recipes he had been taught by his own parents— something that hit Miles like a punch to the gut after a bit of time. A realization that he was being offered a tentative piece of a family long gone, their memories only in the shape of a brother’s words and the taste of chai.  _ (‘Add extra cloves’, his companion had advised with a warm hand on his elbow. ) _

And then it was so fast. Miles didn’t know when the other went from Scar to habibi, but it felt as natural as a name when he addressed him.  _ (‘I would rather not be associated with that title anymore’, he had said- a strong hand raised half-consciously to the thick tissue of his brow. ‘It had been assigned to me, anyway. It was never a name.’) _ He couldn’t catch when they stopped splitting up in the hallway, towards separate rooms that always seemed colder than they rightfully should’ve been in the arid nights. 

_ (Except he did- staying up too late and lingering on the edges of a shivering nightmare, teeth chattering and bones stiff like the ice of Briggs had burrowed itself into his marrow. He had been bustled into a blanket and stayed the night in the Ishvalan’s room, a watchful eye on him until he finally fell asleep. It was the easiest he had slept in years.)  _

They simply fell together, happy to go under with each other. 

*****

Miles bustled around the kitchen, grabbing two mugs from the cupboard — a dark blue one for himself, and one of the yellow ones he knew his partner was fond of. It took only a moment to set tea on to brew, and he poured them both a mugful after setting the spices they typically added on the counter, hearing footsteps bumbling from upstairs. 

Scarcely ten minutes later he glanced up as the man dragged himself into the kitchen, yawning behind a palm and blearily bee-lining for the chai. After picking up a mug and smiling faintly when he saw the color, he turned and pressed his face into Miles' shoulder, forcing a laugh out of the other's chest. "Sleep well, I take it?" Miles teased, taking another sip from his own mug. He fought off a smirk when the other did nothing but mutter into his collar. “Before you fall back asleep, do you want an omelette?” 

He ignored the tired claims that he didn’t have to, rolling his eyes playfully. “Right, and let you light fire to the kitchen again? Go sit down, habibi, it won’t kill you to relax for a moment.”

Miles didn't miss the flustered smile when he spoke, the pet name never failing to make the other soften up around the edges. 

*****

Quite frankly, when they first spread out to Ishval, Miles had been worried they would've butted heads. He would be the first to admit that neither of them were particularly… lax, and he was fairly certain his companion could compete with a bull in terms of stubbornness. 

Except, where Miles had expected arguments and general bickering, the soldier was met with a shockingly relaxed disposition and intellectual counterpoints— it seemed that without the hovering pressure of war and violence, he was an entirely new person. This was probably something Miles should've realized beforehand, and eventually did with a not undeserved amount of embarrassment. 

_ ('I think I'd have a heart attack at thirty if I was always that stressed,' rafiqi had pointed out with a quick smile, laughter heavy in his throat. Miles was never living this down. When did he become rafiqi?)  _

The second thing— after the obvious fact that stress hardened people, he really could be such an idiot at times— was that the man couldn't cook.  _ At all. _ He knew all the recipes at heart, and could happily guide Miles through them, but only once would he make the mistake of allowing the other into the kitchen. How someone could forget to add water to rice, he didn't want to know.  _ ('I forget things, more than most." He had admitted one night, like it was something sinful to speak into the air. 'I don't know why, I used to not. Nowadays I'm lucky if I can recall—' he had stopped there, swallowing and glancing away from Miles.) _

Needless to say, as long as rafiqi did the laundry then Miles was content to cook. 

***** 

Somehow he didn't fall asleep on the table, something Miles considered a small miracle.  _ (A heavy head still against his shoulder, breathing even as he pressed against Miles.)  _ "For someone always up too early, you really aren't a morning person, huh?" Miles teased, prodding him gently to urge him up. "What kept you up all night?" There was a small edge of worry to his voice, though the answer was likely a simple "couldn't sleep." They both found themselves fighting with that often enough.

Two plates were set down, breakfast that was actually edible. 

"Slept fine, actually." Came as a surprise, though. "Think I slept  _ too _ fine."  _ (A sharp contrast to when they first moved in, days spent working and awake through the nights and a crash like Rome falling, horrors trailing up your spine when no one was around to rescue you.)  _ He rubbed a hand across his face, glancing at Miles from between his fingers as he spoke. "You're up early, too. Did something wake you?" 

"Nah, woke up normally." Miles tossed himself into a seat across from him, resting his elbows on the table and poking at his food before eyeing his lover. "Did you take your meds already?"

"Did you take yours?" A fork was pointed at him, mock threateningly. 

"... Touché."

*****

It had all connected in his head on a peaceful night, Miles skimming a book he had picked up and watching bemusedly as the cat they had found stuck her nose up at his friend. He had been trying to pet her without losing a finger for going on ten minutes— face more open than Miles had seen it anywhere else, and fingers gentle and soft instead of jagged, alchemy now banished from their grasp.  _ (His hands were different, one palm less callused than the other, nails shaped differently. He could never bring himself to mention it. He'd seen the glimpses of a raw wound time and time again to know better than to prod.)  _

There was something about him in that moment, it made Miles' chest flutter. He had slipped into love without even realizing it, but as he watched the cat finally pad over and nudge against gentle fingers, he found he didn't quite mind it.  _ (His companion has realized and said it back in almost the same amount of time, simply staring at him one morning as he cooked. It was nothing difficult, but when Miles turned to grab a butter knife he caught him with the dopiest look Miles had ever seen. Red eyes wide and watching him, his chin propped on a tattooed wrist, a fond smile, the whole nine yards. When Miles moved to hand him a cup he tenderly held his wrist for a moment, 'I love you,') _

_ ***** _

Their cat— appropriately named princess— trotted up just as they finished, and Miles could only groan in exasperation when his lover  _ (and wasn't that such a nice word?)  _ didn't hesitate to feed her the scraps. She was already spoiled rotten, something Miles was coming to understand as inevitable.  _ ('People that hate animals oftentimes are hiding something, Miles. They dislike them because they mistreat them,' his voice lingered even when he was gone.)  _ He groaned louder when she hopped up onto the table, nearly knocking a mug off, well—

The things you do for love.


End file.
